Saturday Morning in Montmartre

The favelas of Montmartre

It's 10 o'clock and I'm expected at Café Le Sancerre on the rue des Abbesses.  In bubble wrap is a print of a photo I took of Montmartre from the top of the Arc de Triomphe in 2010.  It's for the previous owners of my local charcuterie (deli).  After 12 years of loyal service, they've just sold and they're moving away.  This is my going-away present, my tribute to all those succulent roast chickens that have welcomed me back every time I've landed in this, my other home.

     "Oh, thank you so much.  It will be a nice remembrance for us, wherever we go," says Nathalie, with the typical two-cheeked kiss.

     Then, over a cup of something, come stories about their customers, including someone they only call Mémé, or Granny "We delivered lunch to her each day.  She could no longer come to the shop.  Now she is 93 and in a retirement home in the far suburbs.  We always send her a postcard when we travel."  And they never fail to remember her birthday.

Chickens roasting in front of my charcuterie

     Their daughter was only 2 when they set up shop on the rue des Abbesses.  I've seen her grow into a young lady, sometimes manning the cash register like her mom.  The new owners of the deli seem like nice people, although they appear to be counting more on tourist trade than the regulars - which, in my humble opinion, is a mistake.  Cold meats and salads are fine once in a while, but this is France and people want a warm meal at lunchtime.  So I suggest that they suggest the new owners should offer more than an either/or choice of hot dishes.

     "Can we have your address?", asks Nathalie.  I write it down, wondering whether I, too, will get a postcard.  More probably a photo of where they hang my photo in their new place.

     Now past the handshake stage thanks to my gift, we do the two-kiss au revoir and I walk away, sad that I won't see their smiling faces on my regular grocery run any more, or eat Christian's most excellent sausages.  ("Je fais l'andouille depuis 14 ans," he admitted to me once, a play on words that means "I've been making andouille sausage since I was 14", but "faire l'andouille" also means clowning around, and Christian Durand always has a notable twinkle in his eye.)

Just part of a mind-boggling selection

     Down the street is the wine shop.  This early in the day, it's deserted.
     "Bonjour, Madame Sandy.  Back already from Amérique?"
     And Manu guides me through the selection of a dozen bottles for my depleted wine cellar.  They'll be delivered this afternoon, for an additional 3€.  I've known this shop since it was opened (see Caves des Abbesses, Feb 22, 2013) and they've never steered me wrong.
     The sun is shining and the sky is blue.  So it's off to restock the garden.
     "Bonjour, Madame.  You are back?  Your garden is not happy, after this terrible winter we have been subjected to?"
     And the lovely Asian lady, who remembers I have a tree that casts a great shadow, suggests plants that might do well in my garden.  I leave with two potted herbs - basil and thyme - and a fuchsia to replace the one the "terrible winter" has killed, along with a campanula plus a bouquet of peonies to remind me of the ones I'll miss enjoying in my garden back in the States.
     Balancing all that, I head back up the hill and stop in at the mini-market.  I'll never be able to carry any more, so I stock up on things to reach the 60€ limit for deliveries.  The mini-cart is full but...
     "That will be 58.77, s'il vous plaît."  But they'll deliver anyway.  I take the two ingredients for my lunch, rearrange the pots of flowers and start off again uphill in the bright sunlight.  In a side street, I meet the man who delivers the groceries, coming in the opposite direction.
     "Bonjour, Madame.  You have groceries for me?" he inquires.  And I tell him I'll be in all afternoon, planting the flowers.  He looks them over and declares that "they will do nicely".
     The easiest climb back to the house is by the Southwest Slope, and it takes me past the news seller.
     "Bonjour, Madame Sandy.  You have come for your crossword?"  They know I always buy the International Herald Tribune on the week-end, as much for the Times Sunday Puzzle as for the news.  "How is the weather in your north country?" they ask.  "You have once again brought to us the sun back" they add, pointing up at the sky.  "And for this, we thank you."  It has become the legend that when Sandy arrives, the sun comes back from wherever it has been hiding.  So once again, my reputation is safe.
     "Yes," I reply, "but now it is up to you to keep it."

     When I open the gate to my garden, I see that the box of wine is already waiting on my doorstep.  In spite of my speed, the wine shop has been faster than I managed to be.
     I set the flowers in the garden for planting after lunch and put water on to boil for the Luncheon Pasta.  A bit of music while I'm cooking, I think.  Something perky, to go with the sunshine.  Maybe even something Brazilian (although I may be overdoing it there).  I look through my "discothèque".

     Suddenly the delivery man knocks at the door with my groceries.  I give him a tip and he's off, with a "Merci, Madame.  Au revoir."
     "You've forgotten your bag!" I call after him.
     "No, it is for you," he says over his shoulder.
     And a very fine bag it is:  bright colors and a sturdy fabric with woven fabric handles.  Ecofrance is stamped on the bottom, and it really is made in France, not in China.  I fold it up until my next trip to the flower shop. Or back to their grocery.  And it didn't cost me a centime.  Just a smile, I guess.

As I write this, the blue sky has gone and a light rain is falling on the newly-planted flowers.  With a sweater on, it's just warm enough to leave the door open and enjoy hearing the raindrops on the leaves of my guardian tree.  Life is good.

Another re-entry

Winter has been long.  On both sides of the Atlantic.
     In spite of Yarburg's famous lyrics - "April in Paris / chestnuts in blossom" - the chestnut trees in the French capital are just blossoming now, in mid-May, which is very late.  Today, somewhere in the south of France, where water is generally at a premium, two weeks worth of rain will fall in a 24-hour period.  Up north, the rivers are just easing back between their banks and the Zouave's feet are drying out on the Paris bridge he adorns (see Le Zouave du Pont d'Alma, Feb. 8, 2013).

     My garden has been devastated more than any other year in the seven years I've lived here.  One ceramic pot even burst in the freezing cold, my neighbor told me.  She has kindly planted seed in the garden and the window boxes, so nasturtiums are starting to pop out all over, but there's still lots of work to do.  The parsley and bay leaf made it through the cold, wet months, the forsythia too.  And last year's gift of lily-of-the-valley which I planted has actually come up.  In France, lily-of-the-valley (muguette) is a symbol of happiness, and I'm hoping it will ring in a whole new year without indoor water leaks or other expensive repairs.

Coming back to France is always a culinary delight.  The green grocer, with whom I've become quite friendly (thereby ensuring the special grapes or ripest melon), always has something delicious to cook up... or just eat raw.
     My visit today not only got me a warm welcome and a "Glad to see you back", but a 25% discount on the morels and a free head of lettuce.  That's in addition to what I bought.

     I couldn't help but be tempted by the gariguette strawberries, an early-blooming variety from southwest France.  Smaller than the regular sort fancied by my American visitors, pointy instead of round, they're far sweeter, and with a taste that I remember from my youth Stateside.  Today's American strawberries are huge but full of water, but these wonderful treasures have kept their strawberriness.  No sugar or cream needed, although some like them that way. Just a swish under the tap to clean off any dirt left from the berry patch and - pop - in the mouth.  (Only buy what you're going to eat that day and the next because they're fragile creatures.)

     I also gave in to the minuscule potatoes from Noirmoutier Island, called Bonnottes.  Said to have gone extinct, they were revived somehow (DNA?) by a local grower's association working with INRA, the French Agronomic Research Institute.  These tomatoes, also very tasty, are on the small side, so you see how tiny the potatoes are in comparison.  Some of them would fit in a thimble!  They're picked extra early, which is something my great-aunt in Pennsylvania used to do in her own vegetable garden.  I'd never tasted potatoes like hers anywhere else... until I tasted these.  Another fountain of youth, back to the days when things seemed somehow to have more flavor.  You just wash them off - maybe scrub them with a nailbrush to remove the dirt they grew in, because they're not pre-washed in bleach water here in France - and then cook them in butter and parsley... and maybe a hint of garlic, but then again, that might cover the taste.
     As for the tomatoes, just cut them up, sprinkle some basil over the top and a drizzle of excellent olive oil, salt and freshly ground pepper and you're in business.

     The last of the winter endive was still available so I bought some.  (To keep the small but free head of radicchio company.)  Just a few staples - onion, mushrooms, garlic - and I'm all set in the fruit-and-vegetable area.
     Now on to the cheese shop.

Recipe of the Month: Asperges au parmesan et morilles

French food snobs are always surprised when something gastronomical also exists in America.  When I tell them that morels - morilles - pop up all over Michigan, they don’t believe me at first.  They think I must be confusing them with something else, some other kind of mushroom, and I’m clearly mistaken.  Once I’ve described them as looking like mushrooms topped with wavy black hair piled high and tasting like paradise, they begrudgingly admit that it just might be possible that the Americans have morilles also.  The next question is always, “But what do you do with them?”
     Mushrooms are something quintessentially French.  Mushroom hunting on a week-end is a traditional family outing.  Even city dwellers head off to the forest to hunt them.  They have special baskets to put them in, and a special brush to clean them with.  But first the mushrooms must be taken to the pharmacie.
     Why to the pharmacist?  Because part of a pharmacist’s training is to know all the mushrooms, to be able to recognize which ones are poisonous and which aren’t.  In rural towns, the shop windows of pharmacies all display a colored photo of various types of mushrooms:  cèpes, girolles/chanterelles and trompettes de la mort which, contrary to their name of “trumpets of death”, are not deadly... although there is a very similar-looking one that is.  Which is why it’s good to have a pharmacist on hand.  That isn’t hard.  There’s at least one in every French town.  And it’s impossible to stand at any corner in Paris, look down all the streets and not spot a neon cross flashing green, the emblem over each and every pharmacie in France.

Asparagus was also a learning curve for me when I got to France.  It was the first time I’d ever seen white asparagus.  Since then, it’s made itself known in America as well, which is only fair because, in return, our green asparagus has become quite the rage in France.  And of course there’s the ultra-thin wild kind that looks somewhat like green wheat.

     This recipe - asparagus with parmesan and morels - is made with the normal kind of green asparagus, which is just now appearing fresh at green grocers all over.  A sure sign of spring.  I stole it from French Chef Frédéric Simonin.  It’s not time-consuming and will make your tastebuds blossom like the flowers in the garden, now that winter is finally over... we hope!

• green asparagus (5 or 6 per person)
• small morels (as many as your budget can afford)
• 2 T butter
• 2 shallots, thinly sliced
• 1/4 c veal stock
• 2 T heavy cream
• parmesan, preferably shaved, otherwise grated
• salt & fresh-ground pepper

- Trim the asparagus, removing any side leaves and tough bottoms.  Cook them for 4 minutes in boiling salted water.  Then plunge them into ice water to stop the cooking.  When they’ve cooled, shave back the very bottom inch to let the lighter color inside show.
- While the asparagus is boiling, wash the morels and dry them on some paper towels.  Cut off any hard ends, but as little as possible.
- Sauté some thinly sliced shallots in butter.  Add the morels and heat them through.  Add the veal stock (or chicken if you have none) and some freshly ground pepper.  Reduce by half, stirring from time to time (about 5 min).  Add the heavy cream and blend it in.
- While the sauce is reducing, sauté the asparagus in a butter/olive oil mix, just until it begins to color.
- Dress each plate by fanning out the asparagus, or even in a star formation, trimmed ends meeting.  Sprinkle the shaved parmesan over them.  Place some morels on top and between the asparagus spears.  Pour a bit of the veal/cream sauce on the asparagus tips and serve immediately.

Preparation time:  5 min
Cooking time:  15 min max

Serve with a white wine from the Jura or Alsace region.

NOTE:  I don’t put extra salt on the asparagus once it’s cooked because I find the stock and the parmesan add enough saltiness as it is.

French Kissing

One of the first things foreigners notice upon arrival in France is The French Kiss.
     No, not that French kiss.  La bise.  The kiss on the cheek that French people exchange each time they meet or part.  La bise is an Art.  Or a Science, depending on how you look at it.
     The first hurdle to clear is determining at what point in a relationship you should shift to la bise from the handshake (always a neat "one-up-one-down", never the American pumping motion).  If you close in for the kill too soon, you'll be categorized as "fresh" (for men), "loose" (for women)... or the all-time faux-pas in France "too familiar" (gasp!).  If, on the other hand, you withhold your cheeks longer than is appropriate, you will be viewed as "cold", or even worse "haughty".
     Men often stick to the handshake with other men, or a manly hug, except if the other man is a relation, a childhood friend or a "significant other".  Women tend to be less reserved, switching over more readily and proffering a greater number of pecks on the cheek.  The older of the two parties is always the one to initiate the switchover.  And if one party is a man and the other a woman, there is the usual social confusion about who decides when.  (Does the woman offer her cheek or does the man just dive in?)
     One fairly hard and fast rule:  always start to the left.  This will avoid the confusion which inevitably occurs when both parties head in the same direction, ultimately bumping noses.  Secondly, if eyeglasses are worn by either party, or both, they should be removed (as one removes one's gloves in polite circles when shaking hands).  This eliminates the clinking of glasses, which, though a cheerful sound, is far more appropriate with fine crystal and champagne toasts.
     So now we have determined when to start and in which direction.  This leaves the question of number.  How many is enough?  One, as in the British or Yankee peck on the cheek, is out of the question.  That would hardly be worth shifting from the handshake. The options are two, three or four.  No more.  Mais non!  Candidates for a two-sy are the newly-kissables or long-standing acquaintances.  When the friendship shifts gears, you up the ante to three, a nice round number.  That "one more" shows the kissee that he/she has become special and merits more affection.  Four, however, seems to be the standard in Brittany and the French West Indies, as well as among "close" friends, ranking immediately prior to the abandoning of cheeks for lips (see photo above).

Now that you know the rules, such as they are, you can practice, provided you find a willing partner.
     At this point you will discover one of Einstein's laws of physics:  Two cheeks lying on a parallel plane will not meet.  Therefore, it is physically impossible for you to plant one on your partner's cheek at the same time as he/she is planting one on yours.  The French kiss solution:  lean forward, align cheeks (almost brushing), and make a recognizable yet discreet smooching sound.  But never, NEVER, under any circumstance, actually kiss the cheek in question.  This would be every bit as gauche as making contact with and actually kissing a hand in a baise-main, if anyone actually kissed hands any more.  (Some do; they usually are quite elderly and sport carefully trimmed moustaches.)
     So now you have your instructions.  Please pair off and start practicing.
     We'll be having a quiz at the end of the hour.

Terrorism in the Global Village

This is the first time I've posted something "topical" in this blog.  Blame it on the flashback I'm having.  I've narrowly missed three such terrorist explosions, this one on July 25th, 1995.  My way of pushing it off to a corner of my mind was to write this back then, the first in my Postcards of Paris articles.  And get on with my life.  Barring which, the terrorists win.
So now that you know what it is, you can close this page or go on to read it.

The day started bright and clear, and slipped gently through the hours as the thermometer inched higher, making the prospect of a backyard barbecue welcome.  A farewell party for a friend of 18 years.  More than a friend.  A fellow expatriate.  Who now was going back, flying across what the British mockingly call "The Pond" to America with her two sons.  It's hard to say good bye after so many years.  Wondering just how final a good bye it could prove.
     So thoughts were riveted on the void that wasn't yet, but soon would be.  Not on the tunnel of the Regional Express subway as it glided inexorably from station to station on Line B, cutting Paris in half, north-south.  Châtelet ... St. Michel... Luxembourg... Port Royal... Denfert... A much-traveled line, pumping inbound suburbanites to their city jobs every morning.
     Now the workday was over.  They were on their way home.  And I to a party.
     I always take the RER to cross Paris.  Less stops.  Shorter travel time.  Quieter, roomier, more streamlined cars designed in the Eighties for a new generation of mass transit.  Computer-controlled to speed one just behind the other, especially at rush hour.  Progress.
      Which is why it seemed strange, as I arrived at my station and walked up the stairs and out the doors, to see the oncoming RER stopped on the track.  Traffic must be backed up, I thought, and walked on to the party, thinking no more about it.

About an hour into the festivities, my friend's phone rang, and it was for me.  My son in L.A.
     A tense "Are you all right?"
     And then the news, from halfway around the world.  Two trains behind me a nameless killer had left a bomb under one of the seats in the last car, the car I always run to catch as the train sounds its imminent departure.  Four dead.  Dozens more on the critical list.  Legs instantly amputated by the blast.
     I reassured my son, hung up and announced the news.  Everyone shouted "What!"  We stared at each other.  Someone turned on the TV and we all sat in a silent row, eyes riveted to the screen, trying to understand the horror.  Who?  Why?

How the world has changed since the snug safety of my childhood Fifties.  Here was terrorism for no known reason by no avowed person.  How could anyone understand!  It has happened in Paris before, but not for ten years.  Now it will all start again.  The trash cans in the stations nailed shut.  The warnings broadcast over the PA stations.  The darting, apprehensive glances among passengers.  The willful choosing of the "right" car.  The safe one.
     Terrorism has become a global phenomenon in a global village.  There we were, unaware of how close we were to the epicenter of hatred, awakened to our vulnerability by a call from the other side of the world.  Two trains.  Five minutes.  So tenuous a distance.
     On the way to a party.  To say good bye.  How fitting a lesson.

Doors to Nowhere

There’s an address in Montmartre.  No. 2 rue du Calvaire.
     It’s a blue enamel plaque with the number 2 in white, mounted on a stone wall.
     That’s all.
     You’ll find it if you take the long stairway spilling south down the Butte to what used to be an art supplies shop but is now a “snack bar” selling “take-away“.  Until almost the end of the 20th century, it sold oil paints, canvases, brushes, palettes... anything and everything needed by the starving artists of the Place du Tertre who have lived nearby since the 1870s in damp, slum-worthy rooms tucked under the rooftops of Montmartre - scorching hot in summer, damp and freezing in winter... and some not too much improved even in my lifetime.

     Directly across from that shop is a short walkway, no more than four or five cobblestones wide and thirty-some long, nesstled between those stairs and that stone wall.
     No. 2 rue du Calvaire has no door.  No window.  Just the wall plaque.  And yet the placement of the stones below the plaque kind of outlines what might once have been a doorway.  You might just imagine the line of mortar is a bit thicker than the rest and the stones inside that line of mortar seem not to be staggered like the rest of the wall.
     Behind the wall is an abandoned garden of grass.  There’s no house and no foundation.  I don’t see how there ever could have been a house there.  It’s just a steep slope with no steps or walk leading anywhere.
     A number on a wall around a garden.  That’s No. 2 rue du Calvaire.
     One of the mysteries of Montmartre, a strange Alice-in-Wonderland type place within the oh-so-thought-out and rational city of Paris.

There’s another cryptic stone wall on the opposite side of Montmartre.  It also shelters a hidden garden.

     But the one in the north slope has a larger-than-life bronze statue striding out of its wall.  One bronze leg, one arm, the front half of a torso and a head.
     It’s the Passe-Muraille, The Man Who Could Pass Through Walls.  He’s the main character from a short story by Marcel Aymé, a French author who lived right there for decades.  The story starts out “Il y avait à Montmartre, au troisième étage du 75 bis de la rue d'Orchampt, un excellent homme nommé Dutilleul qui possédait le don singulier de passer à travers les murs sans en être incommodé.” (In Montmartre, on the fourth floor of 75½  rue d’Orchampt, there lived an excellent man named Dutilleul who had the extraordinary ability of walking through walls with perfect ease.)  The hero of the story, a timid clerk, grows bored with his dull life and becomes a cat burglar who uses his talent to walk through walls and rob banks. Even when he’s caught, he can’t be held in prison because... well, you get the picture.  In his new persona, he takes a mistress, spending passionate moments with her until her husband comes home and he slips away through the wall.
     Then one day he takes some medicine that makes him ... well, let’s say, more opaque.   And when the husband comes home and our hero slips into the wall to escape, he can’t get out the other side.  And there he remains, trapped in that wall to this very day, somewhere on the north slope of Montmartre.

This was the neighborhood my children grew up in.  Rich in art and literature, full of images and stories.  Montmartre has changed, but I'd like to think you could still find it, if you looked hard enough.  Maybe behind doors in walls.  Even if they don’t open.

N.B.  There is no Number 75½ in the rue d’Orchampt, which is a short side-street.  I live there now, and the highest number on the street is 14, I think.  Why did Aymé choose this street?  Who knows, except that he and his wife ate daily at a restaurant a block away from his apartment on what is now the Square Marcel Aymé, by the statue-in-the-wall, and that restaurant was at the corner of the rue Lepic and the dog-leg alley that connects up with (and indeed bears the name of) the rue d’Orchampt.  The restaurant has since been sold to a high-end restaurateur, and both Aymé and his wife are both deceased.

Another mysterious Montmartre door-wall in my sreet

Recipe of the Month: Bouillabaisse

As it bubbles away

Nothing is more Marseillais than bouillabaisse... unless it’s France’s national anthem, which is actually called La Marseillaise.  But in the realm of cuisine, say bouillabaisse and you’re immediately transported to this port city on the Mediterranean, which has been around since Greek sailors founded it in about 600 B.C.

The harbor of Marseille

     As a matter of fact, bouillabaisse itself may be Greek originally, but let’s not take that away from the people of Marseille, pronounced "mar-say".  (And no, there is no “s” on the end, in French.)

Notre-Dame de la Garde

     The name comes from the Provençal word bouipeis, which means “boil the fish”, and is pronounced "boo-ya-bess".  Although it’s often considered a soup, it’s really a whole meal.  That does depend on the amount of fish you put in it... and, of course, the croutons.  As a matter of fact, this dish is often eaten in two stages - first the broth and then the fish - but people who insist on that are really purists and should have their own end of the table.
     Bouillabaisse was traditionally made by fishermen using fish from their catch, fish they didn’t sell.  These fish are mostly varieties from the Mediterranean:  rascasse, vive, saint-pierre, congre, daurade, merlan, lotte de mer, grondin.  That makes it somewhat difficult to reproduce here in the Great Lakes (or elsewhere) in its traditional version, but what you basically need is a blend of some delicate, mild-tasting fish (sole, flounder, whiting, mullet, red snapper) as well as some strongly-flavored fish (mackerel, cod, sea bass, hake, haddock).  Ask the fish counter to help you choose a balanced mix.
Besides, remember that the fishermen used what they had left over, so that gives you some leeway.  Just cook with what’s available locally, but make sure the different types of fish have a good contrast in textures and flavors.
      Yes, bouillabaisse is a bit of work, but remember that you can make the fish stock the previous day, as well as the rouille (pronounced "roo-yah"), and refrigerate them overnight.  Then all you have to do is just reheat the stock and finish with the fish part of the recipe.  And as I said, it is a one-course meal, so no sides to worry about!

Stronger fish:  mackerel,
hake & bass

Fish stock:

• 3 leeks, whites only, chopped
• 2 medium onions, chopped
• 2 celery stalks, chopped 
• 2 medium carrots, chopped 
• 1 t each of chopped fresh savory, thyme and rosemary (or ½ t dried)
• 3 cloves garlic, mashed
• 1/4 c olive oil
• 2 T butter
• 1 bay leaf
• 3 sprigs parsley
• 2 lbs fish bones and heads
• 2 c dry white wine

Milder fish:  tilapia, snapper & flounder

Fish and marinade:

• 2 lbs of strong-flavored fish
• 2 lbs of mild, delicate fish
• 1 lb eel (optional, except in Marseilles)
• salt & freshly-ground pepper
• 1 packet of saffron threads (or 1 t ground saffron)
• 1/4 t each of ground thyme, savory and rosemary
• 1 t anise liqueur (could be Pernod or similar aperitif)
• 1/4 c olive oil

Rest of ingredients:

• 2 T olive oil
• ½ t orange rind, chopped and dried (or about a 2" piece)
• 1/4 c tomato paste, 1½ c peeled, diced tomatoes, or 4 ripe tomatoes in season

Rouille:

• 1 medium boiled potato
• 1/4 c canned red pepper
• 3 garlic cloves
• tabasco to taste

Bringing it all together:

- If you’re making your own fish stock, heat the oil and butter in a stockpot (enamelware is better than aluminum for this).  Add in the leeks, onions, celery, carrots and herbs.  Cook slowly until the vegetables are tender but not browned.   Add the bay leaf and parsley.  Cover with 2 quarts of water and the white wine.  Then add the fish bones, bring to a boil and let cook over high heat for 30 minutes at a slow boil.  (You’ll need no salt or pepper at this stage.)  Strain through a fine sieve and set aside until you’re ready to finish the dish.  You can even put it, covered, in the refrigerator overnight.

Otherwise, bring the equivalent amount of store-bought stock to a boil.

- Place the fish, cut into 2"-thick pieces, in a deep bowl and season lightly with salt and pepper.  Add the saffron, herbs and anise, then the olive oil.  Stir and place in the refrigerate to marinate for about an hour, stirring occasionally.

- Peel, seed and drain the tomatoes if they’re in season, then puree them in a food processor.  Otherwise use the canned tomatoes, drained, or else the easiest:  the tomato paste.

- When you’re ready to finish up the dish, heat 2 T of olive oil, and then add the strong-flavored fish and the marinade.  Let simmer for a minute or two, then add the stock, orange rind and tomatoes, stir and bring to a boil.  Cook uncovered on high for 5 minutes.  Add in the delicate fish and boil 10 minutes more.  (I marinated them in two separate bowls, so I could easily tell them apart.)

- To serve up, place slices of stale French-type bread or croutons in the bottom of a soup tureen or individual soup dishes and ladle the bouillabaisse over the top.  Accompany with a rouille sauce which you can buy in a specialty shop, or else blend all four ingredients above in a food processor until smooth, if necessary adding bit by bit just enough olive oil to obtain a mayonnaise-like consistency.

Serves 6-8

Accompany with a chilled rosé from Provence 

Note: Everyone thinks that bouillabaisse is a big deal to make, but it really doesn’t take much prep time.  I opted for the tomato paste and also used the orange rind cut into strips, which I fished out (pun intended) before serving, and a native of Marseille told me it was "just like at home".  So there are shortcuts you can use to make things easier.  If you get the fish market to cut the fish up for you, if you make the fish stock the previous day or if you buy a good fish stock (try it first before you start the recipe), if you can find a jar of rouille... it takes amazingly little time.  Good, flavorful stock and fresh fish of different sorts are the keys here.  I made the stock myself and it took only 15 minutes of prep time and 30 minutes of cooking time.  The fish took 10 minutes for the marinade and then just sat overnight in the fridge.  The final bit took no prep time and only 25 minutes cooking time.  It was pretty painless.  Of course, I cheated and used a prepared rouille that I had, but even if I’d made it, it would have taken just 5 minutes maximum in the food processor, plus the time to boil the potato in advance.  So don’t be discouraged by the number of ingredients or the reputation of this dish. The result is colorful, hearty and delicious.

(Ground saffron loses its flavor quickly and sometimes is cut with turmeric, so it has less flavor in that form.  Buy the little plastic packets of saffron threads, which are far better.  1 gram equals about 1/2 teaspoon, so I used the entire packet.)